Once again reading my mind, Damien glances up, silently reminding me of the privacy button. It has ensured that she didn’t come in. But at the same time, my cheeks heat with the certainty that she knows exactly what is going on in here.
“We are newlyweds, after all,” Damien says. “And to be honest, I don’t think I’m quite finished working up an appetite.”
“Oh, really?” I say, lifting myself a bit and then lowering, slowly at first and then gradually increasing speed. “And what is it you’re hungry for, Mr. Stark?”
“Funny you should ask.” He takes my hips and guides me, increasing the tempo and impaling himself deeper and harder inside me. “Right now, the only thing I’m interested in is you.”
“Good.” I put my hands on his shoulders, letting our rhythm build and our passion grow. Our eyes are locked, and neither of us looks away, both too entranced by the storm that we are building in each other.
“There,” he says, as if he feels what I feel. As if he saw within me that electrical sensation spreading down my inner thighs, a precursor to the explosion.
But I see it inside him, too. More, I feel it in the way his cock hardens, in the quickened rhythms of his thrusts. My body responds in kind, tightening around him. Giving as much as I am taking and moving faster and faster in a sensual dance that breaks us both into a frenzied explosion of light and passion.
“Damien.” His name is a cry, a prayer, and as I cling to him, my body shaking as the storm rips through me, I hear my name, too, as Damien’s release fills me, and then there is silence as his mouth closes over mine and he kisses me feverishly until we both pull away, spent and gasping for air.
“Well,” I say, after my body stops quivering. “I think I’ve got one hell of an appetite now.”
“Funny,” he says. “I’m still only hungry for you. But I suppose nutrition counts for something.” He gently lifts me off him, then reaches for my robe to clean us both off. I raise my eyebrows and he chuckles. “You don’t need to put it back on. I’ll toss it in the laundry bin later. And I rather like the idea of watching you walk naked to the stateroom.”
I release what I hope sounds like a snort of disapproval, but is really laughter. And just to show him up, I make my way to the back, adding a little more swish to my hips as I go.
I pause outside the stateroom and look back. He is watching me, his expression full of love and longing, passion and heat.
I breathe deeply, feeling calm and centered. Yes, there’s a lawsuit, and yes, that sucks. But that’s just a blip. A chapter in the book of my life. Hell, a footnote.
Damien is the whole story. And our life together is epic.
Chapter 9
As it turns out, we don’t just take a limo to the hotel. We first take a helicopter from the airport to a helipad in the city center. I’ve done many things with Damien, but so far we’ve not commuted by helicopter. And, yeah, I’m a little giddy.
I lean toward the window, one hand on the glass, the other tight in Damien’s hand, and watch as the pilot brings the bird down gently. After just a few more moments, the staff has unloaded our bags and is escorting us to a waiting limo. It’s smooth and seamless and definitely one of the perks of traveling with Damien.
The limo’s interior is completely frosty, but I barely notice it. I’m too busy gazing out the window at the city that is passing by us. The Arc de Triomphe, the stunning architecture, and even a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. I feel like a little girl with her nose pressed to the window, not a woman who recently returned from a very similar trip.
All too soon, our drive ends. The limo pulls up in front of what looks like a private residence, but the uniforms on the two men standing by the door make it clear that this is a hotel.
The two livery-clad bellmen hurry forward to retrieve our bags, then whisk them away while Damien and I walk more slowly into the hotel. A distinguished man with a small mustache hurries to greet us. I learn that he is the manager of the Hôtel Margaritte, and that this exclusive hotel just off the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré has only twenty rooms and was once an eighteenth-century private residence.
Damien and I will be staying in the penthouse.
The manager escorts us there, taking us through the lobby, which is still furnished as it would have been centuries ago, with tapestry and gilt, crystal and elegance. I walk with my head in constant motion as I look this way and that, trying to take it all in.
But whatever awe I feel for the lobby fades when we reach the penthouse. It is, in a word, incredible. Taking up the entire top floor, it is luxury personified, with no detail overlooked in the beautiful furnishings, the antique mirrors, the modern kitchen well-concealed behind decorative, period-style doors.
The real showstopper, however, is the huge bay window that arches up into a skylight, giving the living room the illusion of being outdoors. And, as if to remind us that we are in Paris, we have a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower.
“This room was the conservatory at one time,” the manager says. “Mademoiselle Margaritte, the hotel’s namesake, kept it filled with flowers.”
“It’s lovely,” I say, thoroughly delighted.
He finishes giving us the tour, then leaves us in privacy. Only then do I realize we never stopped at the front desk. That pedestrian form of checking in is apparently one of those pesky things that only those who don’t have the means to own small countries have to put up with.
“Do you own this place?” I ask Damien when we are alone.
“I don’t, no. Why? Do you think I should?” He pats his pockets. “Let me check my wallet. Maybe I have enough cash. …”
“Oh, sure,” I say. “You can laugh. But I’ve seen you buy some pretty amazing things on the spur of the moment.” When we were in Italy, he’d heard about an authentic Michelangelo that was going to be put up for auction. He’d contacted the seller, made the kind of deal that couldn’t be refused, and then donated it to a Los Angeles museum on the condition that he could take it on loan for two months out of every year to tour his properties, kept under watchful guard in the lobbies of his offices all over the globe, and thus giving the general public a chance to come view a masterpiece.
“True,” he concedes. “But I rarely buy real estate on impulse.”
“There’s always a first time,” I say lightly. “But seriously, why aren’t we staying at one of your hotels? You have one not far from here. Or at least Stark Properties, a wholly owned subsidiary of Stark International, does.”